


Speak Not In Whispers

by danceswithgary



Category: Smallville
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-20
Updated: 2007-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 23:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithgary/pseuds/danceswithgary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is time for Clark and Lex to see the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak Not In Whispers

_"People who whisper, lie."_ Swedish proverb

 

The sun is always with me, its rays warming and filling me with life even now. Standing at the window in my loft, eyes closed and face lifted to the fading light, the brilliant colors of the sunset are painted across my memory. The sound of footsteps rises behind me, first to one side and then to the other as my visitor navigates the stairs and landing.

It is a game, to stand here with my eyes closed and try to guess who it could be from a myriad of clues. The click of heels says my visitor is wearing leather shoes, not the work boots or sneakers favored by my family and most of my friends. The tread is light with a scuff that says the feet skim the ground, neither the stomp of Pete or my father, nor the rapid tap of Chloe who never walks up the stairs, instead preferring to meet them in a rush.

At the top of the stairs now, they're silent, waiting for me to speak. This tells me they're not my mother who is always courteous and calls out to warn of her approach, giving her teenage son the chance to tidy away anything that might be embarrassing. A puff of breeze brings a unique scent to me and there's no longer any question. Without turning from the sunset, I speak his name as an invitation to join me at the window.

"Lex?"

There's a hesitation, a shift of feet without moving forward that surprises me because Lex is never anything less than confident, always secure about his place in the world, always calculating what it owes him. At least that was how he was before, before he had that same privileged world ripped out from under his feet, before I betrayed him.

 

. . .

 

He's standing there at the window, just as I've seen him so many times before, looking out over the fields at the sunset, his form limned by the dying light, surrounded by a nimbus of gold. He is holding himself so still, and that disturbs me, because he is rarely quiet. It isn't that he makes large, sweeping gestures or speaks in a shout, but he's always moving, watching, touching something, unable to stand in front of my desk without a shuffle of his feet or fidgeting at his clothing. Now, it is as if the greater part of his vitality has been diminished, torn away, and he holds himself strictly in check. I'm surprised at how relieved I feel when I see his hand clench on the windowsill, the subtle movement betraying his agitation.

My heels click as I walk across the loft floor to him, making no effort to conceal my approach. I come to a stop next to him, my hand rests on the small of his back and he flinches, just a small jerk, before leaning back into it. I can feel the warm muscles under my palm flex, and then relax, the trigger for him to release the breath I wasn't aware that he was holding. I don't know what to say to him. I don't how to begin to tell him how sorry I am that he's hurting, or the right way to ask how I can help. I'm speechless in his presence because he has always been the strong one, until now, my personal savior. Now, I finally have a chance to repay him, and I don't know how this is supposed to work, but I have to try.

"I don't know where to start, Clark."

His head turns, he looks toward me and he smiles, and I'm sure that his eyes are smiling too, behind those dark glasses. I'm sure because that's how Clark is, always giving to others, despite his own pain.

. . .

 

He was always the strong one, the one who always knew what to do, how to solve the problems I brought to him, my personal savior. When he needed me the most, when I might have made up for the other times I failed and hurt him in the past, I failed again and he is still paying the price for my cowardice.

Holding tight to the windowsill, I wait, holding my breath and willing him to come to me. I can feel the warmth of his body next to me and it takes everything in me not to lean against him, to let him bear some of my burden, but he's hurt, too. I must be content with the hand that has settled on my back, that necessary pressure that lets me breathe again, and simply hope that the connection won't be withdrawn any time soon. I hear the quick intake of breath that precedes his apology for not knowing what to say to me, I hear the despair in his voice, and he should never have to live with that word, because he is always seeking to help others. I need to let him breathe, too. I turn my head toward him and I smile and tease him with a chuckle.

"I think 'hello' would work just fine. Behind these sexy Ray Bans, I'm still the same old dorky Clark who was breaking things by accident in your office last week."

I feel his hand tremble against my back before it stills and presses still more firmly, keeping us connected.

. . .

 

The Kents are stubborn and filled with a pride unmatched by any Metropolitan socialite. I've never been able to give them anything, beginning with the day Clark and I met for the second time. Of course, we didn't know we'd met previously until much later on. All I knew then was that a young man had saved my life at the risk of his, and I wanted to repay him. Odd, how I once thought my life was worth at least as much a new truck. Lately, there have been days when I'd be hard-pressed to consider it an even trade, even for a less than new, three-year-old truck. I've depreciated much faster.

They will not take, but they will give, and today is no exception. Clark gives me his smile, and a humorous reply to my less than articulate stammering, saving me from further embarrassment. His bravery overwhelms me and I struggle to control myself, to prevent myself from pulling him into my arms. My hand trembles, and I press it more firmly against his back to keep the only contact I can allow myself.

I have to try once more and hope that the Kent pride will not keep Clark trapped in the darkness.

"When my father was...blind, I...I brought in some of the world's top ophthalmologists. I'd like to do the same for you. Will you please let me do this for you?"

As Clark shrugs and turns his face away, telling me that he needs to learn to live without sight, I can feel my heart begin to break. I smile to hide the pain, but it's foolish to pretend to smile at a blind man. He insists that he can hear the concern in people's voices and that he doesn't want to talk about it.

I touch his face, still heated from the sunset, and try to make it clear that I understand his reluctance.

"Clark, I understand what it's like to have people treat you differently because they perceive you as being damaged. I've been dealing with it everyday whenever someone finds out that I've been under treatment for mental illness. The only way I can get beyond it is to prove I'm still me, that I can still function after everything that has happened."

. . .

 

Lex once declared that friendship was a fairy tale, and that I was no different from the rest of the town that despised him, right before attempting to kill me with an automatic weapon. If I had been anyone else, he would have succeeded. He doesn't remember that happening, any more than he remembers thrusting a gun in my face after shooting Morgan Edge and telling me that I had to die because I had betrayed him. I'd never told him how I'd spent that summer in Metropolis, what I did while he struggled to survive under a tropical sun. Lex didn't know why Morgan spoke to me as if he knew me, all he knew was that his enemy had greeted his friend and another section of Lex's view of the world was warped and curled until the pieces of the puzzle would never fit together.

He doesn't remember and so he wants to help someone he believes is a friend, because one of the most important things he doesn't remember is finding out what I am. His doctors can't help me. No one can and I need him to understand that he should stop trying.

"I appreciate that, Lex, but this isn't a problem to be solved with money. This is something I need to learn to live with."

I hear the quick intake of breath that almost sounds like a sob and I know I'm breaking his heart...again.

He doesn't remember the first time I broke it, broke him, when I visited him in the asylum and I wouldn't use my powers to help him escape. He shouted that he would never forgive me, and a few days later, he was hurt because he tried to escape by himself. I could have prevented that, if not for my fear. I chose to protect myself, my secrets, at the cost of his mind. I don't deserve his kindness and I try to make it clear I don't want his pity, either.

"I really don't want to talk about it, Lex. Even when people don't say anything about my being blind now, I can hear the helplessness and pity in their voices."

I could have prevented what Lex's father did to his own son to save himself from murder charges. Was I any better, abandoning Lex because I was afraid to expose what I am, what I can do? I listened to my parents and my friends, but I didn't pay attention to that part of me that said Lex deserved a chance. I finally tried to help him, but it was not enough and too late and I died a little inside when I saw he'd forgotten everything that happened. The knife carved a little deeper into my soul when he told me he hadn't forgotten how important our friendship had been to him. His hug as I welcomed him home tore through my heart, his simple gratitude for my friendship only making it more apparent how I'd been anything but a friend to him. I wonder if it would have been better if the electricity that had jolted through my body, as I struggled to free him, had erased those months from my mind also. Perhaps it would have let us both start over, and maybe get it right the second time.

He touches my face, his fingers cool after the heat of the sun, and tells me that he understands what it's like to overcome prejudice against disability and that he's going to succeed despite it. I don't want to lose his touch, my hand covers his, and I try for an encouraging smile as I ask him to explain.

"How are you going to do that, Lex?"

When he tells me, it is as if those bullets were striking me once more and I can't catch my breath between each impact. I can't let him go back there, can't let him enter that world again unarmed, unprepared. I can't betray him, can't fail him again, because this time he may not survive. The wood under my other hand cracks and so does my shield of lies.

. . .

 

Clark's hands are so large and I've seen their strength, yet when he covers my hand, as it touches his face, he's gentle as if he's afraid I'll break. His smile offers support as he asks how I'll recover my life. It's simple really, how to begin again, and it's odd that he hadn't thought of it before I explained.

"My father's offered me a position at LuthorCorp. I'll work my way back up to the top."

The sound of cracking wood catches me by surprise and I look around for the source until I see the splinters under Clark's other hand. Nothing else betrays his agitation until he swallows hard, licks his lips and then stammers out a question. I withdraw my hand when he clenches it until it becomes painful. He doesn't believe my father is sincere and I don't understand why he thinks the offer isn't real.

"Clark, do you know something that I don't? What makes you think my father is lying?"

His broad shoulders hunch as if to take a blow, yet I'm offering none. I simply want to understand what is prompting Clark's dismay. He insists that he overheard a conversation, but I can't help laughing away his concerns.

"It's not as if my father's giving me an office to sit and twiddle my thumbs in all day."

His response to my attempt at humor is cutting and harsh, and I begin to understand his protective posture as I struggle to prevent myself from echoing it. Despite my efforts, a gasp escapes me before I can ask him why, my voice shaken by emotion.

"I don't understand Clark, why would he do that?"

I want to take the hand he's offering me in comfort, but I steel myself for the answer. His next words jolt and sear, and I can't prevent myself from stepping back, out of reach.

. . .

 

Overhearing Chloe speaking to Lionel Luthor had been a dual betrayal: the revelation of her investigation of my secrets coupled with Lionel's plans for his damaged son. Both were devastating, but the more important issue now at hand is protecting Lex from any more pain.

Feeling the splintered wood shift under my hand, I swallow down my fear that Lex has seen the damage, lick my unexpectedly parched lips, and stutter as I try to find out if Lex knows anything about his future position.

"Are you...sure about what he's...offering, Lex?"

Wincing as I feel him pull away his hand abruptly, I fear that I've crushed it in mine without realizing it. He says nothing, so I can hope it is just bruised, not broken. I should have expected he wouldn't simply accept what I was suggesting, that he would question me further about what I knew. I attempt to give him enough information to keep him suspicious of Lionel without revealing my sources.

"I...I overhead someone talking to Lionel...saying that...the job is going to be a fake, that it won't really be...doing anything...useful."

His mild joking voice about twiddling thumbs pains me as I remember a Lex who would have been cutting, a shark flashing through waters he'd filled with the blood of competitors. I'd never thought I'd miss that. I can't help trying to fill that void with my own slice at his complacency.

"Actually, I believe the phrase used was 'sharpening pencils', Lex."

Hearing Lex's gasp and forlorn question, I'm immediately contrite, but the hand that I offer in mute apology is ignored, and I'm left alone in the dark, chastened for my cruel words, racing towards the next.

"He wants to be sure you don't remember, Lex. He'll feel safe as long as he knows he can control everything you do or say."

I drop my vacant hand to my side in defeat as I wait in solitude, my silent night.

 

. . .

 

Still hearing his damning words in the sudden silence, I watch as his hand drops, stills. I feel my head shaking an unseen negative as I try to push away the implications. I don't know why Clark is insisting my father wants to control me through his job offer, but something resonates within me with his statement, his flat, calm delivery suggesting the deepest of truths. The difficulty is that my _best_ friend has lied to me in the past and my sojourn in the madhouse has not erased _that_ fact from my memory. I cannot confront my father relying only on Clark's word. I need more.

"Who told you this, Clark? According to my father and my doctors, I had a psychotic break because of what I went through on the island. I told you that when you visited me at the castle. What do you mean he doesn't want me to remember? Remember what?"

He flinches and then straightens, his shoulders rising as if to bear a fresh burden. His face turns toward me, toward where he believes me to be, and I take a single step forward, moving with no true volition save my need to comfort. The sorrow I see in his face draws me, compels me, as it always has, in my need to spare him from pain. His next warning brings me to another halt and the ache of past deceits spills, bitter and stinging.

"Chloe just let you listen? Why should I believe you, Clark? It's not as if you've been honest with me about everything. I'm not a fool just because I...."

Trembling, I clamp down hard on the forbidden words. My longings have no place here, my hands can offer no caresses, and my lips dare not taste. He is another's, a fact made so very plain in the past. I do remember that. I remember each delicate slice into failing hope caused by his lamentations of unattainable love. My unrequited passion cannot excuse his past deceits. My love is not blind, yet _he_ is, so I listen as he offers the answers to questions I've raised so many times, refutation of so many lies, the blistering cure for passion and desire.

"Why didn't you trust me, Clark? What did I do to you that was so awful, that I didn't deserve the truth? I would have protected you."

My mind feels slashed and torn by his failure to trust me, his unwillingness to believe in me all these years. As he speaks, answers my unspoken questions, I'm withdrawing, stepping back, the distance between us increasing with each revelation, each betrayal another wedge, until Clark is reaching out to someone who's already left him behind, just as he'd done to me.

"You left me there, Clark? You can do all those things and you let them do that to me?"

The wounds are too deep, and I know I have to leave before my rage breaks free. A smothered, wordless protest and Clark falls silent, head bowed, dejection plain in every muscle. The final rays of the sun reveal a single glistening tear as it emerges from beneath dark concealment. I turn away and pretend that the lack of light is what causes me to stumble on the stairs, not the sound of a moan, followed by a thud that could have been knees striking the floor.

 

. . .

 

Faces speak when words fail and I am doubly handicapped whenever Lex withdraws to silence. I have to warn him, because I can no longer protect him, but I can't tell if my words are penetrating the armor that he has donned to protect himself from my past deceit. I knew that each falsehood injured him until he chose his own sort of blindness, but they festered, each a deep unhealed infection. I chose safety over love and have now lost the chance at both. I straighten, no longer hiding from the truth, although I can feel it pressing down as if massed to crush my hopes.

"I overheard Chloe speaking to your father. She's been investigating me for him, and when she tried to quit, you came up in the conversation. Your father made it clear you wouldn't be any help to anyone, not even yourself. He's the one responsible for your break. He drugged you, so you'd be put away, so you couldn't turn over evidence that he killed his parents for the insurance money."

I need to finish, so I quickly override the gasp that greets my accusations.

"You need to be careful what you eat or drink, Lex, because he could do it again, easily. Chloe and I figured it out before, but neither one of us could protect you now. You need to believe me, Lex. He'll take you away again, if he thinks you're starting to remember."

His righteousness questioning of my plea for belief leaves me no choice. Only complete disclosure will do. Forewarned is forearmed. He spoke of that once, in one of our late night discussions, a truism offered in the dim light of a television screen. I will arm him and if he chooses to turn the weapon on me, then it is only what I deserve.

"I was able to hear them, Lex, because my hearing changed at the same time I lost my sight. I'm not like everyone else, Lex. You've known that, even when I lied. You hit me with your car that day and I didn't die because I'm not human. I'm like no one else on Earth, because I wasn't born here. I arrived the same day you lost your hair, and the remaining pieces of my planet that arrived with me, are the only things that can hurt me. My arrival destroyed more than cornfields. I've ruined so many lives, Lex, including yours, and I'm so sorry, Lex, so very, very sorry."

I hear the devastation in his voice, the distance between us increasing, and I cannot cross the unseen chasm that widens with each word, even so, my arms reach out. He claims he would have protected me, and my heart and stomach clench at the past tense, the implied rejection of now. My own bitter words leech out, despite my earlier resolve to accept the blame without reproach.

"You couldn't protect yourself from your father, Lex. How was I supposed to believe you could protect me, my secret? You spoke of a Judas kiss when you thought I'd betrayed you to Morgan Edge, and you didn't know whether I could be hurt or not, when you pointed a gun at me. I stopped Morgan's car with my body, and you looked at me and declared you'd been right all along, and that I wasn't human. You laid on the ground in shock, and kept repeating those words, and I ran, because I was a coward. When I was finally able to get in to see you at Belle Reve, I was a coward again, afraid to use my strength and speed to free you. You hated me then, you screamed that you'd never forgive me, and I left you to your father's tender mercies."

I attempt to summon the words to explain how I'd failed the final time, how I'd been too late when I did try, but my chance is lost with his distant outcry of treachery. A tear escapes and my throat closes in defeat. I can't speak. My truth has crushed me, and the only sound I can make is useless, futile. The receding sound of footsteps is a death knell to any hope I'd retained, and I drop to my knees with a moan, in complete and utter despair.

 

. . . .

 

I manage to start the car, even remembering to turn on the headlights in the gathering dusk. As I pull away from the barn, I notice that his parents aren't at home and I don't know why, I never thought to ask. I wasn't thinking about that, and...I won't.

I notice a lot of things as I drive.

I count the fence posts on the way down the rutted dirt driveway to the road.

I see the cows lying in the field and I wonder if it means something to farmers when they do that.

I watch the speedometer carefully to make sure I'm under the speed limit.

I don't think about Clark.

I _won't_ think about Clark.

I won't think about the missing pieces, the gaps in my memory because he left me behind, betrayed me to my father.

I won't think about when he first lied to me, within five minutes after he pulled me out of a river, just after he forced life back into me with his own breath, with those lips I once desired.

I won't think about dangling stories high, about watching the agony in his face as he pulled two men from certain death, just before he lied to me again.

I won't think about a boy who wasn't, who accepted me, defended me when the rest of Smallville, including his parents, condemned.

I won't think of hanging upside down for hours, hopeless, until he appeared out of nowhere, somehow saving me again.

I won't think about burning agony that spread across my back until he was there, and I was safe.

I won't think about axes descending, guns firing, or people who could reach inside a body to still a heart.

I won't think about being different, a difference no one else on this earth can claim, about how frightening the thought of someone _investigating_ that difference can be.

I won't think about a room filled with mysteries, a dead reporter, a dead scientist.

I won't think about spending a lifetime hiding, until no one ever _sees_ that a miracle is standing there in front of them.

I won't think about why I ended up back here, parked in front of a dark barn and an empty house.

I don't have to think about it.

I already know why.

Moonrise illuminates my path until I enter the unlit barn. There were lights earlier, strung along the rafters in Clark's so-called fortress, but they're off now. I return to the car for the emergency flashlight before I try again. This time I can see across the dirty floorboards to the staircase I stumbled down just a short while ago. I don't hear anything, and I'm not sure where Clark is, until I reach the landing and can see him standing at the window again. Head bowed, shoulders slumped, barely visible in the scant moonlight. Silent. Unmoving.

At the top of the stars, I try to locate the switch for the lights and as the beam of the flashlight moves around the loft, I can't stop the gasp. At the sound, I see Clark's arm raise and swipe over his face before he stutters a puzzled greeting. It's apparent he doesn't know who it is, thinks I might be one of his parents, his mother perhaps. Holding his shirt for some reason, he turns his head and warns me to be careful, in a thickened, slurred voice, because he'd had an 'accident' and he doesn't want me to be hurt. He assures his mother that he'll be in soon and that he'd like to be alone for a while.

Something, I'm not sure what, makes him aware that he's mistaken about my identity. He shuffles in place until he's facing towards me, somehow knowing where I'm standing, despite my silence. When I play the flashlight over his face, there is no flinching, no shunning of the unseen light. I'm the one that flinches at the sight of the dark stain that mars his face, the raw skin around eyes no longer concealed by dark glasses. I cry out in shock.

"Clark, what happened!"

As I move forward gingerly through the destruction, his arms come up to fend me off and his torn shirt gapes open, revealing bloody slashes bisecting his torso. I stumble over something underfoot, almost falling in my haste to reach him, my voice shaking as much as my hands.

"God, you're hurt! Let me see. Did someone...?"

His desperate plea brings me up short, and I'm stunned by the devastation in his face, and the knowledge that my actions, my anger put it there. It wasn't the pain of a failed friendship, but the agony of a lost love.

 

. . .

 

I remember the sound of Lex leaving, footsteps, thud of a car door, and a throaty rumble of an engine, the crunch and crackle of stones beneath tires. It's a little hazy after that. I think, maybe, I went a little crazy. My throat is raw, my chest hurts, stings, my hands are sticky and I'm not sure where I am.

Kryptonite. I was going find the Kryptonite my parents keep to protect them from the alien monster. It's too bad they didn't give Lex a piece to carry. It would have been better if he'd finished me off, instead of leaving me here, a shell around an aching void. The pain returns and I try to rip it out, but my skin heals even as I dig my nails in, rending my flesh in a useless attempt to purge the source.

Panting, I fall forward on my hands, feeling the splintered wood around fist-sized holes. Glass grinds under my palms as I crawl, trying to find a wall, any wall, so I can feel my way out of this lightless hell. I find a cord with empty sockets that tingle as I touch the remains of a string of lights. They didn't survive. Neither did my telescope. If I could find my cane, maybe I could make it to the house without destroying anything else that belongs to my parents.

I can't find the wall. The cane is in pieces. The Kryptonite is still out of reach.

I listen, but all I can hear is my own persistent heart, beating, still beating even after the death of my dreams. He's gone. Oh god, he's gone.

The feel of the breeze from the window brings me back again. I keep it in my face, I crawl to the wall, and I pull myself up on legs that no longer want to bear my weight. I force myself to stand and I hang on, my face turned out to the true night.

My heartbeat still thundering in my ears, I fail to hear anyone approach until the quick intake of breath. I know it must be my mother. My father would never manage to be so quiet. I don't know what she can see, but I've already caused her enough pain. I can't let her get hurt anymore. Feeling the tears on my face, I swipe at them with my hand and then pull my shirt closed, before I turn my head a little, and try to convince her to leave.

"Mom? Be careful. Don't...don't come any closer. I had a little accident."

I think I did well, my voice hardly shook, but there's no answer. I have to be alone, so I'll try again.

"I'm okay, really, Mom. I just...just need a little more time alone. I'll be in soon. I can clean this up, tomorrow."

There's still no answer, and then I remember there shouldn't be. I'd convinced them that it would be all right to leave me alone, so that Mom could visit a sick friend in Metropolis. They were going to spend the night there. They'd left right after an early supper and weren't supposed to be back until late tomorrow morning. I don't know who's standing there, watching me.

I turn around carefully, shuffling my feet to help keep my balance in the remains of my fortress. My hearing decides to cooperate and I can tell exactly where they're standing. The startled cry tells me he's back, here, now, and I hear him approach and I can't, I can't. No more. Please.

"Please, stop. Don't. I don't...I can't...no...Lex. Lex, please."

I'm so afraid I'll hurt him because I can't touch anything without breaking it. I drop my hands knowing he's approaching despite my pleading, waiting for the next blow to fall.

I wasn't expecting the hands that pull me close...or the kiss.

 

. . .

 

The destruction that surrounds us makes me pause before I trust myself to the bloodied hands that Clark holds out, in a useless attempt to keep me back. A smothered moan and they drop, trembling at his sides, fisted, and I know it's because he's afraid he'll hurt me by mistake. It could only be by mistake. I refuse to believe he would _choose_ to hurt me, despite his earlier confession of guilt. There are more, possibly even greater secrets, but I think I've just discovered the most important.

Defeated and broken, he's still the most beautiful creature I've ever seen in my life. I invade his space, I take, my hands pull his face down, and I claim the kiss I've been craving for years, even before I knew he existed. I can feel him stiffen in shock for a heartbeat before another, sweeter, moan softens his lips. I lick mine as we separate reluctantly, and the metallic tang mixed with salt reminds me that he's been hurt and that I need to see to his wounds as soon as possible.

"Clark, where are your parents? Are they coming home soon?"

I regret the question immediately when his barriers go back up. I watch him straighten, insisting that he's fine and that he doesn't need any help, and that he can take care of himself until they return in the morning. I'm appalled at their callous disregard of his needs. His excuse that he can't be hurt is bullshit. He needs to try to sell that to someone who can't see the way he looks right now, standing stock still and afraid to move.

"Clark, are you telling me your parents really left you here alone, overnight? Don't try to tell me you can't be injured, not when you're standing there blind and covered in your own blood!"

I understand pride and the need to reject pity, I suffer from the same disease, but I can't let this go on. I cover his blustering protests with my hand and tell him what is going to happen. There'll be no more asking politely. We're doing this my way.

"Enough. I'm here and I'm not leaving you alone again, so just _shut up_, and do as I say. First, and most important, stop talking about what makes you special while standing in the middle of a barn. Anyone who stopped by, either to visit you or your parents, could've heard, you fool."

I feel his jaw drop under my hand at my preemptory tone, and I find it hard not to laugh in the midst of the chaos that surrounds us, both physically and mentally. Clark could very well be the strongest man in the world, but he belongs to _me_, even if he doesn't realize it yet. I take his arm and tug him away from the window toward the steps, carefully guiding us both around the holes in the floor, while glass and splinters are crunching under our feet. For a moment, I forget, and think to myself that he needs a new telescope, and then I'm shaking my head at my foolishness.

The trip to the house is taking longer than I expected, but at least it's quiet, now that Clark's stopped arguing. In fact, it's as if he's barely breathing. I'm sure it's a temporary state brought on by exhaustion. I'm feeling it too, dragging at my brain as much as it does at my muscles. We navigate the porch stairs together, enter the unlocked house, and I fumble for the light switch. The sudden glare makes me blink and when I see how much blood is caked on Clark and his clothes, I find it hard to keep myself calm. I tell myself his injuries must be superficial, but it isn't helping, I need to see, I need to make sure.

"Fuck, Clark! How did this happen? Let me see how bad it is."

I ignore his muttered objection and since he won't touch me, even to push me away, I don't have any trouble pulling off his shredded shirt. I unbutton his cuffs and now I see the skin and blood caught under his nails. That explains it. Only he can hurt himself. I grab one of his hands and hold it up, shaking gently it to get his attention, my voice a little softer.

"Why? Why did you do this to yourself, Clark?"

His mouth opens, but no words emerge, then it closes firmly and he just shakes his head. His unseeing eyes blink closed, but not fast enough to prevent several more tears from falling. He still has more secrets, obviously, or so he believes. He doesn't know what I saw in his face when he realized I'd come back. There would time for that later. We both need to get clean, and he should be bandaged as soon as possible. Food and rest after that. I hope that there aren't very many more arguments left in Clark. I'm exhausted.

 

. . .

 

I don't know why he kissed me. It was probably pity for the blind man. No, make that the blind alien. The thing is, if that was only one I'm ever getting from him, then it was too damn short. I want to touch him, but I'm afraid I'll break him. I've already broken everything else around me, including his heart and his mind.

He left me, knowing what I'd done and I knew he wouldn't be back. Why did he come back? His questions make it clear. It's definitely pity. His need to take care of people is kicking in, even me, the one he hates. He has to go. I can't take having him close, knowing I've lost any possibility of his friendship, let alone more. I can stand up straight. I can do this. My voice even sounds steady, although it's still a little rough.

"Mom and Dad are in Metropolis visiting a sick friend. They'll be back late tomorrow morning. I told them I'd be fine. It's not as if I can get hurt, Lex. I'm an alien, not a human, remember?"

He hasn't moved, he's still right in front of me and I want to touch him so badly that the pain starts again and I have to dig it out, but I can't because he's right here. He has to leave.

"Lex, I'm fine, really. It was just a few scratches. Just..."

His hand is on my mouth and I can't believe he's telling me to shut up! He's saying he's not going to leave and that I have no choice in the matter. Now he's calling me a fool for telling him and I wish I could believe he really cares about _me_, not just about anyone who looks like they're hurt or needs help. I'm almost sorry when the hand is gone before I have a chance to taste him. The tug on my arm makes it clear he's going to take me to the house. I can't fight that without taking a chance on hurting him, so I shuffle along, trying not to trip and fall.

On the way to the house, I keep missing things, little blanks, and then the world comes back with the pain. If I hold my breath, try not to breathe too deep, it's a little better, but I'm dizzy. The only good thing is he's touching me, and that'll stop when he leaves again. When he does, at least I'll be in the house, and I'll be able to find the Kryptonite. I just have to hang on a little longer.

We don't get any farther than the kitchen before he's yelling again. I don't know why, but he's yanking on the cuffs of my shirt, completely ignoring me, not that I'm saying much. He sees _everything_. I should have known he'd figure out what happened, how I'd gotten hurt. Shaking my hand isn't going to shake an answer out of me, although the care in his voice startles a few tears from me before I can force my eyes closed to stop them. I can't tell him why.

His voice is so gentle, like his touch, as if I'm something fragile, breakable. He keeps telling me everything's going to be okay, that he'll take care of me. I want to shake him, and shout that he has to go before I start to believe that he really cares about me. I can't. I can't shake him. I can't shout. I can't even speak. All I can do is let him lead me upstairs and stand quietly in front of the bathtub while he undresses me. I'm still trying not to breathe too deep, but his touches make it impossible. His casual brushes against my belly and legs, as he removes my sticky jeans, make me jerk. He turns on the water and helps me into the tub and I grope along the wall to the soap dish, trying not to break it off again. I can't hear much above the sound of the water, so a touch to my shoulder startles me, and a tile cracks when my elbow hits it. Better the tile than Lex, who's in the shower with me.

I don't think I'll ever be able to breathe normally again.

 

. . .

 

Getting angry with Clark isn't helping so I need to calm down and get him calmed down too, although maybe he's too quiet now, still barely breathing. He flinches just a little every time I touch him, just as my gelding would, right before we started a dressage circuit at a competition. Soft words and continued petting worked to settle him down, so I'll use the same on Clark. It's not as if it's a hardship to touch him.

"Come on, Clark. Let's go upstairs and get you clean. It's all right, I have you, and I'll take care of you."

His silence is bothering me. He hasn't said a full word since the barn, hasn't responded to my questions except with a head shake or aborted gesture. Even our awkward attempt to negotiate the steep stairs together hasn't managed to force a protest or complaint. Step after step, I'm coaxing him upstairs, all the while thinking he looks like one of the victims in a teenage horror movie. Guiding him into the bathroom, I'm not surprised when he doesn't try to undress himself. He's shut down almost completely, probably only moving by instinct or force of habit.

Standing in front of him, I try to keep my movements impersonal as I unbutton and unzip his blood-soaked jeans, but touching him is inevitable. He's back to shaking again, so I finish as fast as I can, turn on the water, and help him into the tub. Watching him stand there, blinking sightlessly against the force of the spray, one hand braced against the wall, it's apparent he's going to need help in there, so my clothes join his on the floor. The crack of a wall tile makes it clear he wasn't expecting me. His refusal to touch me earlier is a little more understandable when I see how easily he can break things accidentally. He must be petrified that he'll put a finger or hand right through me if he's not careful.

Keeping one hand on his shoulder so he knows where I am, I make sure the warm water is rinsing off the blood on his chest and belly. He was telling the truth. There's not even a scratch left under all that gore. I expected some serious cuts and scrapes, but there's nothing but smooth, golden skin. I touch it to be certain, as if I can't trust my own eyes, and my fingertips confirm that he's unmarked. I can't stop stroking, tracing the curves of hard muscle, soothing the tremors that match his shallow breathing.

He's so beautiful.

There's no damage. What he told me...it...it has to be true. He's...an alien. All this time, I thought he was just another mutant, like me, like the others this town has seen come and go. I couldn't understand why he wouldn't just _tell_ me, why he wouldn't trust me.

He's an alien, and if other people knew...if other people knew....

"You really _are_ an alien, Clark."

That probably wasn't the smartest thing to say aloud right now, not with my hands rubbing all over him, measuring, comparing. His full body shudder almost threw me out of the tub and the moan...he sounds like he's just...given up.

He looks so human.

He _feels_ human, if human means flawless skin and perfect conformation. He has all the same basic features: two eyes, a nose, a mouth, nipples, navel, cock and balls.

He's not human.

He finally told me, finally trusted me. He said I found out before and kept yelling that he wasn't human and he ran away. There's so much more I need to know, he hasn't told me anything really, not where he's from or why he's here or....

Stop.

I need to stop thinking right now and pay attention to Clark because he's shaking so hard and there's still blood on his hands and face. He needs me to take care of him, not turn into someone who treats him like a thing, analyzes, investigates and takes him to pieces to see what can be useful.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I said that. It'll be all right, Clark. Let's get you clean."

He lets me move him around like a mannequin, when I know he could throw me through the wall with no effort. He bends his head when I tug at it so that I can shampoo the fine strands of his hair, closes his eyes tight against the soap I'm using to cleanse away the blood and tears. The soap helps my hands glide over every inch of his incredible skin, rubbing lightly when I need to, always touching, testing the firmness of muscle and the bone beneath. Across his lightly-furred chest and packed muscles of his belly, broad shoulders that taper to a strong back, flank and hip, arms and legs, hands, feet, I wash them all gently; worship him, until finally, ass and cock.

He's quiet and compliant until I reach up between his legs, take him in my hands and make him gasp. No shallow breathing now, his chest is working like a bellows. I watch his face, his tightly-closed eyes that open wide, but there's no fear or repulsion, just stark need, and I hear my name drop from his lips like an obscene prayer. His palms flatten against the tile, his legs tremble as his cock lengthens and fills, heavy, hard, and so warm in my hands. Mine has been aching since I first started touching him, and I want...I want what I dream about late at night. I saw his face. He'll give it to me, give me _anything_. I own him. He's mine.

I can't.

It wouldn't be right. It's too easy to rush into sex, take without thinking of consequences. I need to know he really wants this right here, right now, and that it isn't just a physical reaction, or fear that I'll walk out again or...his goddamn conscience deciding he owes me. It's easy to decide what to do next when the hot water runs out.

"Fucking hell, that's cold, Clark! We're done in here."

I feel much better when Clark manages to come up with a curse of his own. Cold showers can be damn useful at times and they work pretty well, at least they do on humans like me. We need to talk before we go any further. If I don't completely fuck this up tonight, we'll have a long time together to get it right.

 

. . .

 

It's so hard to think. Words, thoughts keep teasing at the edges and then they're gone and I can't catch them long enough for anything to make sense.

Breaking the tile didn't scare Lex off like it should have. All I have to do is move a little too fast and I could tear him apart, break bones, or maybe even kill him. I've hurt other people fighting with them, even hurt Mom and Dad when I was growing up. I don't want to hurt Lex, not Lex. I remember how he looked, all sleek and elegant, so proud, and I liked to watch him walk. He walked into a room and people paid attention. I know I did. It always hurt a little when he walked away from me, when whatever we were doing was over.

He walked away tonight and I couldn't even see it. It didn't matter. It still hurt. It hasn't stopped hurting, because I know he's going to leave again when he's done feeling sorry for me. He's stroking me now, light, gentle touches. I used to dream of him touching me, before I left him to rot in that place, then it was only nightmares. God, is it possible for something like me to shake apart? I'm trying so hard not to move and it's hard to breathe just little breaths because his fingers feel so good. The blood must be mostly gone because he's not sticking to my skin anymore, it's smooth under the water, and it's as if he's petting me, like a dog. And then he says it.

I'm an alien and he says it and I want to die because I'm not human and who could want something that can destroy and kill without really trying. I can tell when I almost knock him out of the tub after I jerk back and I can't help the sound I make when I think about losing Lex before I ever had a chance to try. I'm standing here under the water with his hands on me and shaking because I can't breathe or the pain will make me rip at it and....

He says he's sorry. He just said he's sorry for saying it. Why? It's the truth. I'm so tired that I can't understand why he would apologize for telling the truth, but he did and he's still here. All I can do is move where he wants me to, and hold as still as I can, so that I don't knock into him and leave bruises I can't see. I've hurt him before, left dark purple marks from my hands when I grabbed him too hard when he was drowning or falling off the catwalk, or when I pushed him out of the way of bullets. I was trying to help and instead I caused him more pain, so now I'm being more careful than I've ever been before.

His hands feel so good in my hair and on my face and I make sure to keep my eyes shut so he doesn't have to worry about getting soap in my eyes. When they move over my skin, it's as if he's trying to figure out if I feel the same as a human. His fingertips are pushing in as they slide through the soap he's using. I don't think there's any place on me he hasn't felt except...I can't catch my breath. I have to open my eyes even though it makes no sense because...it feels...so....

"Lex..."

I can hardly hear myself, but I know I said his name, keep saying his name. I know I'm going to fall, my legs, even with my hands against the wall, I can't...so good....

He stopped.

No.

I don't care if the water is cold. One kiss and some touching and that's all I'll have and it's not enough. Fuck no, it's not enough.

"No! Damn it, Lex, I don't fucking care about the water. You can't. Please."

He's ignoring me, rinsing me off roughly, no more softness, hurrying. The water is off and he's drying me with one of the big towels Mom leaves out for me, a little less hurried, although I can feel him shivering. The water must have been really cold and of course, being the stupid alien that I am, I couldn't tell. He helps me out of the tub before he dries off my legs and feet. I can't believe he's laughing because he forgot to dry my hair, and it's dripping all over him and the places he just dried off.

It makes me smile to hear that laugh. I wish I could see it, see his eyes crinkle in the corners like they did when he cleared the table, before I even got a turn, the last time we played pool. He has different smiles, the kind that only touch one side of his mouth, the ones that make me shiver because they mean he's going to cause trouble, and my favorite. That very special smile was for me and I haven't seen it since the day he came to the farm, the day I found out he was still alive.

The same day I discovered I loved him and realized that I would lose him one day because he would be unable to forgive my lies.

Somehow, I don't feel like smiling anymore.

 

. . .

 

The water is freezing. I have to finish rinsing the soap off Clark and ignore his complaints about stopping, as difficult as it is. I turn off the water, grab one of the towels and dry off faster than I ever have in my life, trying to restore my circulation. Feeling a bit warmer, I start to use another towel on Clark. They're nice and big and they smell of fresh air and the sun. I'm still a little cold, so I'm rushing, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the sight of all that clean, dry Clark skin. I can almost justify checking to see if it's still soft and smooth, the sensual treat it was in the shower.

He's mostly dry, so I help him out of the tub and help him balance while I rub down his legs and feet. I forgot about his hair, and the drops that are falling from it onto my back are cold and tickle as they slide down along my ribs. The whole situation suddenly strikes me as amusing. I, Lex Luthor, formerly a brilliant businessman, recently a denizen of Belle Reve, am taking care of an alien. If I told anyone else about this, there would be a discrete call to the good doctors to arrange another stay at that lovely manor for the mentally unfit.

I don't care. Here I am, toweling dry a being from another planet, and all I can think about is my disappointment at the size of the Kent's water heater and the all-to-abrupt end to our shower. Feeling another chilly drop land on the top of my head, I look up, chuckling at my whimsy, and catch sight of a soft smile. It gives me some hope that we're going to be all right, even after the smile fades under the towel I use to dry his hair.

In lieu of robes, I wrap dry towels around our waists before leading Clark to his room. I guess the habit of modesty is hard to break, even in an empty house with a blind man. Walking around nude, exposing my freakish lack of hair to scrutiny, is something I choose to do purposefully, not absent-mindedly. Clark should have some clothes I can borrow until I can get clean ones. I'm burning the clothes I wore tonight. There's no point in taking a chance on someone getting a sample of Clark's DNA, if he even has DNA, from them. I should probably arrange to burn Clark's, too. No, not probably, I will. It isn't as if Martha's had to deal with Clark's blood very often in the past. I can always buy him new clothes.

He's still oddly docile as we walk down the hall to his room and doesn't object when I push him down gently so that he sits on the edge of the bed. I don't want him tipping over and breaking something else while I look for pajamas or sweats. I'm already regretting that I'll be depriving myself of the sight of his body, but this isn't about me. I need to keep him in his comfort zone so that there's a chance we'll be able to talk things out, clear up some questions. He's sitting there, green eyes open but unfocused, hands restless in his lap, head turning to follow the sounds as I rummage through his closet and drawers. Puzzled, he asks me what I'm doing and I attempt to lighten the mood.

"I'm trying to see if you own anything that isn't plaid or one of the primary colors. If I'm to be reduced to wearing clothes that are too big, they should at least be in a slightly less jarring color."

The quick grin and weak chuckle resulting from that feeble jest makes me glad I tried. I'll have to think of how to make that grin stay longer the next time. Handing him soft cotton pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt, I grab the same for myself and shrug them on quickly, appreciating the warmth. Clark manages to get himself dressed without any help or mishap, which is encouraging. It seems like he's starting to come back, to return from a dark place I can only imagine. I'm sure some food will help, not that I'm going to give him too much choice in the matter.

"Do you want to go back downstairs to eat, or should I bring something up here?"

I was too optimistic. It's obviously still too much for him to work out, whether it's more work to get him up and down the stairs or to bring the food up. I can see the struggle in his drawn face, the lines of exhaustion deepening, and I make the decision for him.

"Never mind. I'll just run down and see what your mom left you. I'm sure whatever it is, it's great. Why don't you get into bed and I'll be right back?"

I can't help a sigh of relief when he nods, crawls up to the head of the bed and gets under the covers, propped up on pillows. He sits there quietly, head bowed and I indulge myself by running my fingers through his damp curls before I leave, pushing them back from his furrowed brow. Hurrying down the stairs, I rub my fingertips together, missing the silk of his hair and the warmth that rose as he leaned into my hand with an almost imperceptible murmur of contentment.

It's getting late and we're both too tired to want very much to eat, so the freshly-made apple pie that's on the counter looks perfect. After a few late-night experiments in my kitchen, I've found a microwave works fine for tea and I start two mugs of water with teabags before I try to locate some plates and cut the pie.

The spicy scent of the pie's filling rises as I slice into it and I remember the day I asked Martha what she put into it to make it so different from any other I'd tasted. She laughingly insisted it was a family secret, while a red and white container, with the word 'NUTMEG' on it, waved slowly above her head, held up by a grinning Clark. It's the only pleasant memory I have when it comes to the Kents and their close-held secrets.

"Nutmeg."

The microwave beeps and jolts me out of the past. I add honey to both mugs and everything goes on a tray as quickly as I can manage. Knowing how finicky Martha is about her kitchen, I make sure everything is put away properly before starting back upstairs. I haven't heard any ominous noises from upstairs over the hum of the microwave, so I hope Clark is doing all right alone.

Walking into the dimly-lit room, I see that Clark has slumped a bit against the headboard and is dozing. I'm tempted to let him sleep, but after everything he's been through tonight, he needs to eat and drink something first. He can't have been too deep asleep, because when I sit on the edge of the bed, he startles awake with my name on his lips, followed by another sweet smile that lingers as he blinks lazily. He sniffs appreciatively and hums with pleasure as he carefully takes the plate and fork I hand to him.

Taking my own plate, I make a matching sound when the spicy sweetness of Martha's creation melts over my tongue. It's difficult to be polite and not bolt down my food when faced with such culinary perfection. Clark stops chewing long enough to tilt his head in my direction, snickering at the un-Luthor-like noises and I exaggerate my moans of delight to keep him amused. A full-blown laugh is the result, quickly followed by a cough as Clark chokes a little on his mouthful. A forkful of pie, loaded with filling, ends up on Clark's shirt with a sound of dismay from the owner. I retrieve his plate and the errant utensil and hand him his mug to help wash down the offending crumbs.

Putting everything back on the tray, I quickly move it out of harm's way before attempting to clean up the mess before it gets on the bedding. I freeze at the sight of Clark scooping up the filling with his fingers and licking it off. This time my moan is for an entirely different reason.

 

. . .

 

Wrapping a towel around my waist so I can walk to my room seems a little silly considering what Lex has already seen. It's certainly not as if Mom and Dad are here and modesty around a blind man, I just don't get it, I guess. At least I know my way to the room from late night visits in the dark. I used to close my eyes on purpose and pretend I couldn't see, just to get an idea what it was like. The experiment was nothing like the reality. Back then, I could open my eyes or turn on a light, that's no longer an option.

Sitting down on the bed is probably the safest thing for Lex. At least I won't walk into him or hit him by accident this way. I'm not quite sure what he's doing, though, it sounds like he's opened every drawer in the dresser and is moving around the hangers in my closet.

"What are you doing, Lex?"

Insulting my clothes is typical Lex. He almost sounds like he usually does when it comes time to decide what I need to wear to go somewhere with him. He's always so funny about my flannels that I can't help laughing. Of course, I didn't think about clothes for him. His must be dirty and he doesn't want to put them back on after taking a shower.

By the feel of the clothes he dropped in my lap, he must have found my pajamas. I can manage to put them on without any help. That must be a relief for him after everything else he's had to do for me tonight. I bet he can't wait to leave, especially after what happened in the shower. I need to try to make it easier for him, but it's hard when he's not giving me any choices beyond whether I want him to feed me here, or downstairs. Either way, he's the one doing the work and being forced to stay.

I guess he decided it was easier to bring something back up, so I won't argue. The faster I do as he asks, the faster he can leave. I'll just sit here and wait, tucked in like a little kid. It felt so good to have him comb my hair with my fingers that I was almost expecting a kiss on my forehead. I can hear him moving around down in the kitchen and it's kind of nice laying here, waiting for him. I wish he'd come to dinner more often, he's always alone, he never eats, he likes Mom's cooking, likes her pie, asked what made it special that time with the, yeah, nutmeg, that was fun, nice smile when I, nutmeg is special....

...Lex is special, smile, Lex's smile, wish....

"Lex."

He's here, sitting on the bed, as if all if took was my saying his name. I can hear clinking, but more importantly, I take a deep breath and I can smell the nutmeg and cinnamon that Mom puts in her apple pies. All of a sudden, I'm hungry. Mom's pie is the best and I can't help making what Dad calls my 'pie appreciation' noise. I always tease him back, reminding him who taught me.

Lex takes my hand and puts a plate in it and then a fork in my other one and it's hard to wait politely for him to make a noise so that I know he has some pie for himself. It isn't long in coming, he sounds like he's in pie heaven and I join him. It tastes so good, the smooth, sweet spice and the tart apples and the crust...Lex is going to be so embarrassed when I tease him about sounding like a Kent instead of a Luthor. God, he sounds like he's jerking off and where did that...drink, I need a drink. I hate when I swallow something the wrong way. It doesn't matter if I can't get hurt, I can still choke like anyone else. Good thing Lex brought something to drink.

Great, now I have pie all over my shirt.

I can feel it sticking my shirt to my skin. I'll just scoop it up like the slob I am. I can't get much more embarrassed, choking on my food and then wearing it. At least it still tastes good and...did Lex just make that noise? Did he go back to eating his pie?

No, I guess he didn't. Whoa.

"Lex?"

That's his mouth on my shirt, licking off the pie. God, that is so hot the way he's...he wants my shirt off? Okay, the shirt is off and his mouth is back for more of my spilled pie, joined by his tongue. I don't believe this is happening and please don't let him stop again. Except, why?

"Lex, please. Lex, I need to know why, why are you...?"

I need to turn off my brain and just not think right now because this is probably the last time I'm going to get a chance to.... Fuck. I can't let him do this, it isn't right.

"Lex, stop, please. I don't want you to do this because you feel sorry for me."

He tastes so good. His tongue, lips, his lips, they are so soft and he's spicy and sweet, honey and cinnamon and he's saying something about always wanting this and he needs me and I can't think. He's licking, his mouth, my fingers, so hot and slick on, his tongue, my name, he's saying my name like it's as sweet as pie and I never knew my hand was so, god, shaking and he's sitting on me and that feels so, going to, going to, fingers, mouth, so good, yes, going to...

"Lex!"

 

. . .

 

Every one of my good intentions just went up in smoke along with half my brain.

He should not look that incendiary, just by innocently sucking on his fingers.

Sucking my cock?

Absolutely.

His fingers...with pie?

Fuck.

If I get any harder...I have to taste. I can feel him under my lips, a furnace, and the shirt has to go.

Now.

He's sticky sweet under my tongue, smooth salt underneath, and the sounds he's making, the sounds _I'm_ making are....

Oh no, he's not going to try to stop this, he can't possibly believe I don't really want him, that I'm doing this out of _pity_. I _know_ he wants me, I heard him in the shower, I saw...I see his face. His beautiful face that should never look that sad, as if he thinks no one could ever love him. That's just so wrong.

"No, Clark, Clark, it's not...I've wanted you forever. I can't believe you think...I need you so much, Clark. Please let me."

His mouth, it's perfect. God, he tastes so sweet and he feels so hard and soft at the same time under my hands, he's so strong. I can do anything to him, anything I want, and he's mine. These hands, they could tear me apart and that is such a...spicy and sticky-sweet and I can feel every ridge and whorl of his fingertips under my tongue and the sounds he's making.... He's so hard and he's shaking and he feels so right under me, there under my ass, he's fucking huge, fucking my mouth with his fingers, shaking.

My name when he comes.

Mine.

He's mine.

His face.

So gorgeous, an angel when he comes.

I need to see that again.

Soon.

Fuck, I'm so hard. I need. He has to touch me.

"Clark, please. I need you to..."

No, no, no, no!

"You're not going to hurt me, Clark. I trust you."

There. Right there. His hands are so hot, burning, and he's touching me as if he's afraid I'll break, but I won't.

"Harder, Clark. Please, more...I need you, please."

So...fucking...good!

"Clark! Yes!"

 

. . .

 

He wants me to touch him, but I'll hurt him, he sounds like he's hurting already. I'm making him sound like that, like he's going to die if I don't touch him and he's telling me he trusts me. He feels so fragile in my hands, I could break him, skin so smooth and soft, but his cock is so hard and he wants me, he needs me. God, is that? It is, I feel it, he's coming on me and that is so...the sounds he's making are so...

I wish I could see him.

He must look so beautiful.

He feels so right, lying on top of me, he belongs here, and he should never be anywhere else.

 

. . .

 

I don't think I ever want to move again, but we're going to stick together if I don't get us cleaned up. Between the pie and the come, neither one of us is going to be wearing these clothes to sleep in tonight, not that I mind that very much. There's something to be said for easy access, and we've got a long night ahead of us.

"As much as I'd like to stay right here, I'm getting uncomfortable. Why don't you finish getting undressed and I'll be back with something to clean you off."

Telling Clark to get out of his pants while I get a wet towel may not have been one of my better ideas because it's hard to leave him lying there naked with my come all over him and his cock halfway to ready again. We need to talk, though, so I just clean up fast in the bathroom and bring back the towel for Clark. He hums, rumbles, no, he _purrs_ while I wipe him down, stretching like a sated golden panther and it's really difficult to stay focused when he moves like that and his smile, his smile is so content that I want to lick my way inside.

I toss the towel on top of the clothes piled in the middle of the floor. I'll have to make sure I wash everything before his parents get home in the morning. I don't think they're going to be ready to deal with a Luthor knowing Clark's secrets and being his lover at the same time, but I'll let Clark decide how he wants to handle it.

I thought Clark would just move over when I crawled back into the bed, but I guess he had a different plan. He does make a remarkably warm and comfortable mattress, one that likes to touch me with gentle hands. I could get used to this. I want to get used to this. The lights are off, but the moon cheats in my favor, winning me an advantage over my blind companion. I can watch his face as I listen to his heart.

"Clark, you know we need to talk. We can't just ignore the past or try to pretend it never happened, not if we're going to be together."

OK, that was an interesting sensation, feeling every muscle in Clark's body tighten at the same time. Maybe that's what it would be like to ride a tectonic plate as it shifts. Lying on top of him was a good idea, he's not going to take any chances on hurting me by trying to get up and leave because he's uncomfortable with the subject under discussion.

"I'm not going to bring in any doctors, now that I understand what an extraordinarily bad idea that would be, but I need to know how you were blinded and why you haven't healed. That's not what usually occurs, is it? I've only seen you hurt once before and you were healed the next day. How?"

This Kryptonite, the meteorites he's telling me about, they need to be cleaned up as soon as possible. I'm still not exactly sure how it works, but I will. This problem with him losing his powers, though, that really bothers me. That means he could really get hurt, maybe even killed and that's unacceptable.

"Both times? It's happened twice? There was the time I saw you in the hospital, but I don't remember you being hurt later on. When did it happen?"

Fuck. That hit a nerve.

. . .

 

Lex is being fussy. I don't care if we're sticky, I just want to hold him, but of course, he gets what he wants because I want him to be happy. Even if it means I have to take my pants off for him, which maybe isn't such a bad thing as long as he comes back like he said he would.

Oh, that towel feels nice and warm and I guess not being sticky is a good idea after all if it means I get to have Lex wipe me down like this. Oh, yeah, I like that a lot. Even better is Lex getting back into bed with me and he's going right back on top of me where he belongs, his head right over my heart. His skin is so soft and I can touch him with just my fingertips, feel his muscles where they pad the bones, count each rib and bump along his backbone to the top and back down again.

This is great, except he's talking. He wants to talk about what's happened and all I want to do is enjoy this, damn it. Now I'm stuck under him and I can't even try to leave because I'll just end up hurting him if I'm not careful. Maybe it won't be too bad. He said together, that we're going to be together and that's what I want and I think he does, too.

He wants to know how I got hurt and I guess that makes sense, I mean he hit me with his car and I lived, so asking how I managed to end up blind is reasonable.

"I told you before that the only thing that can hurt me is the meteor rock, it's called Kryptonite because I came from Krypton. I can get hurt when I lose my powers, too, but that was because of the rocks and electrical surges both times and I got them back and I healed right away. This time, I tried to use my heat vision in the jewelry store, and it hit a piece of rock and I think it reflected back and burnt out my retinas. I don't know why they're not healing, but maybe it's a combination of the Kryptonite and the fact that I did it to myself, using one of my powers."

Oh no, I said too much and he's too smart to have missed it. Now I have to tell him because I can't keep any more secrets from him, but I wish I didn't have to. I don't want to lose this, lose him and he's already left me once because I told him what I did. Maybe, maybe he can forgive me. God, I hope so.

"It happens if I'm holding a rock and there's high-voltage electricity going through me and someone else. It transfers the powers to the other person. Eric accidentally got them the first time when we were struck by lightning. He used the circuits at Belle Reve to take them away on purpose the second time, and then he and Ian tried to kill me. I'm so sorry, Lex. That's why I couldn't stop your father and get you out. I didn't get them back until it was too late. I'm sorry."

I think that maybe it's going to be all right. He sounds upset, but not because I let him get hurt or because I left him. I think he's forgiven me and I don't care if I'm blind the rest of my life as long as he doesn't hate me.

He doesn't hate me.

I can't believe it.

He tastes so good, and he doesn't hate me.

. . .

 

He tried to get me out of there. Damn it. He tried to get me out and he feels guilty because he couldn't...because some idiots tried to kill him. They took away his powers and tried to fucking kill him and he feels guilty because my own father fried my brain and he couldn't stop it. He could have died trying to save me. The most precious being on this earth and he...could...have...died!

God, no wonder Jonathan Kent looks at me that way.

"Clark, we're going figure this out, everything, together. You have to promise me, you have to promise you'll never do anything like that again. You can't risk yourself for me, you can't. If you get hurt because of me...I can't lose you. Never again. Promise me!"

I don't want to hear him say anything else unless it is a vow, so I take his mouth. I take those lips that used to tell lies that flayed me open, leaving me bleeding in disbelief. I take the tongue that burns me with truth glowing hot as a sword newly forged, still red from the coals. I take the breath that protests and I return it, heated with desire.

And then he takes me.

. . .

 

He is so frantic in his need. His kisses consume me and each one takes my breath away, until I have to move him off me and down to the bed. He writhes and I press him down into the mattress, my hands spanning his hips, flexing carefully. He gasps and I smile at the words that spill from his lips, as my mouth tastes each sweet inch between his mouth and his impatient cock. His hands are buried deep in my hair, and the growled curses that greet my failure to move faster only make me slow even more, to nip and suckle at flawlessly smooth skin. I only wish I could see the kisses I suck into the groove of his hip as he jerks and moans beneath me.

His taste blooms in my mouth, full and rich, sweet and salt, and the texture is like nothing I've ever encountered before. It's addictive, a taut fullness, soft over a firmness that throbs as I mouth along it to the base. More damp salt there and a scent so Lex, rich and thick and I want to roll in it, wear it so that he's always with me. I lap it up and he's part of me now, and I need more so I pull back and take him in, all of him as deeply as I can. There's nothing else but him, how he feels, how he tastes until his movements are frantic and deep and then he is mine and he is so far inside me that I come too, unable to wait for him to touch me.

When he whimpers, I let him leave my mouth reluctantly and my head lies on his belly as I listen to him breathe. I think about moving, but it's nice right here and maybe later I'll slide back up and hold him.

Lex seems to have other ideas though, and as his breathing slows, he starts to talk about our future.

. . .

 

His hands hold me down firmly without any chance for escape, not that I want to. I'd rather lie here and absorb every touch, each kiss, greeting all with profane prayers. I try to guide him, my hands deep in dark silk, but he's bent on torture, not on relieving the growing ache between my legs. Reaching my goal, if not his, he samples with lips and tongue, still teasing until finally I'm inside that inferno he calls a mouth. It's too much after too long, I'm finished, and from his groans and thrusts against the bed, he is too.

His head is heavy on my stomach and I'm feeling too limp to do much except think about how I never want this to end, but the future intrudes, and I have to be sure.

"Clark, if this is just for tonight, tell me now. I know this is all new to you, but I need to know what happens when we wake up, if we're going to be together as friends or something else. You and Lana..."

I stop when he pulls away and rolls to the edge of the bed, fumbling his way to his feet. He takes a few faltering steps before halting, the moonlight hiding almost as much as it reveals of the tension in his stance.

. . .

 

The uncertainty in Lex's voice is disturbing, hinting at a vulnerability so unlike him. I need a little distance, I want to make sure, and I want him to be sure. Pulling away from him hurts and that only underlines how much I need him. I get to my feet, but there's nowhere to go, my life is lying there in my bed.

"I don't think there can be anyone else for me, Lex. No one else has ever felt right, like they're a vital part of me. That's why it hurt so badly when...when I thought you were gone. I was sure I'd ruined any chance of being with you, even if it was just as your friend. I don't want to lose you, I can't _be_ without you."

My head drops, I want to hide, I'm afraid this will be too much for him. I've hidden too much for too long, though, and he deserves the chance to decide for himself, with all the facts. Taking a deep breath, I straighten up and I turn my head to where I think he's standing now. I can't wait for him to respond. I smile and speak as clearly and distinctly as I can when I feel his hand touch my face.

"I love you."

 

. . .

 

Worried by his withdrawal, I abandon the bed to follow him only to freeze at his confession. Stunned at his courage, I discard any remaining pride in the wake of such stark, unflinching honesty. I close the distance between us, unable to bear the separation.

I begin to speak, but the words are too soft, too hushed. I stop, take a deep breath and raise my hand to his face. I'm stripped of all pretenses, naked before the man who restored my soul. My pledge to him deserves more than a whisper.

"I love you."

We're laughing because we both said it at the same time.

We're going to make this work.

 

. . .

 

We say it together and the sound of our laughter is sweet.

We're going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Started as an entry for the old_school_clex Challenge, this story refused to fit the prompt. I finally gave in and let it have its way.


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